


There will be an answer

by Tashilover



Category: Endeavour
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe - Slavery, Slavery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-11
Updated: 2015-01-07
Packaged: 2018-01-15 08:32:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 12,934
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1298320
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tashilover/pseuds/Tashilover
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Thursday didn't fight a war so he could own a slave.</p><p> </p><p>Slave!AU</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Thursday felt like a fucking hypocrite. How often had he spoken for slave rights? How much blood had he spilt fighting for them? He went to war- literally- for them. And here he was, buying one for his wife.

He hated this store. He hated being here. It took everything he had not to sneer at the rich women and men who walked through this place, slaves in tow, acting as if owning a human being was a god given right.

He had to remind himself it wasn't for him, it was for _Win_. Win, who slipped and fell and hurt her hip so badly, it could be months before she was able to walk again without pain. With Sam back in school and Joan taking on extra shifts at the bank, there was no one who could stay home to watch their mother.

Thursday waited uncomfortably at the front desk, hands pressed flat against the shiny wood. Happy-go lucky posters of pretty people smiled down at him, telling him the benefits of slavery and how it improves the economy. Thursday saw less propaganda for the war.

Eventually a young woman came to the desk. Thursday straightened his back, swallowing back his disgust as he suddenly noticed the collar around her neck. "Hello, sir," the slave woman greeted politely. "How may I help you?"

 _I'm so sorry,_ was what he wanted to say. "I am here to purchase... a slave."

"Do you have any preferences?"

"Preferences?"

"Yes? Blonde, blue-eyed, short, young, old? Are you looking for a pleasure slave, or a house slave?"

"House slave... I don't care for looks."

How come none of these posters on the walls behind her showed the majority of slaves? The ones with the scars, the owning tattoos, the age lines and leathery skin? The slaves who worked their fingers off, only to be tossed aside when their bodies couldn't handle the stress of their lives any longer?

"All right," the woman said, going through her notes and writing down Thursday's requests. "What's your price range?"

"Two hundred pounds."

The woman looked up at Thursday. "Sir, our average price is five hundred."

"Unfortunately, that's all I can afford." Even with the extra money Joan was willing to sacrifice. "I need someone to look after my wife. She hurt her herself and she needs someone to look after her."

The woman tapped her pen against her lips thoughtfully. "I understand the situation is delicate, but we don't have slaves with prices that low..."

Thursday felt both relieved and disappointed. Relieved that he didn't have to throw away his morals and justices he fought for since his early twenties. Disappointed because Win _needed_ this.

"You know what?" The woman suddenly said in revelation. She reached over and grabbed a different file. "I think there's one slave I can sell to you for a hundred pounds... ah, yes, this one here."

She pushed the file over for Thursday to look at. He practically scoffed at the name. _Endeavour Morse_? "Why is he so cheap?"

"He's about to be recycled."

Recycled. Another word for _killed_. Such a fate were usually reserved for those who committed horrific crimes, but slaves were often recycled for other, stupid misdemeanors. Like pleasure slaves saying _no_. "Why? What did he do?"

"Runaway," the woman said. "Like dozens of times. It's gotten to a point where the company doesn't want to deal with him anymore."

God fucking damn it. If Thursday bought the slave and he ran away, would Thursday care? Would he be angry he just lost a hundred pounds and Winny's caretaker? Or would he be proud that this poor slave fought tooth and nail for his freedom?

"It's a risk, I know," said the woman. "But the slave is fully aware that this could be his last chance. If he is caught fleeing again, he is to be recycled, no exceptions. Personally, sir," the woman dropped her voice low. "If I were him, I wouldn't risk running away again."

Thursday closed his eyes. He couldn't believe he was doing this. If his mother could only see him now. "I'll take him."

 

 

 

 

 

Morse was quiet.

Exactly what did Thursday expect? For a repeated runaway slave to be chatty? At least they didn't deliver the boy to him covered in bruises. Runaway slaves often felt the hand of their masters, and it was within their rights to punish their slaves. Thursday was afraid the boy would be broken somehow.

He read the file. That was all the boy was guilty of: running away. He never hurt his masters, never killed them, never took revenge. It was amazing the boy went on this long without a misdemeanor on his name.

Morse was skinny, as young people often were. He had giant blue eyes which suited his thin face. He was a handsome boy, and it had Thursday morbidly wonder how many of Morse's masters were women.

"So I hear you're a runaway."

Thursday inwardly winced. He didn't mean to make the statement sound like a veiled threat.

Morse looked at him, but gave no indication he was offended or afraid.

"My wife injured her hip," Thursday said, trying to sound less harsh this time. "She can walk, but not far, and not easily. I need someone to look after her in the day when I am at work."

"May I ask what is it you do?"

Polite, he was. "I'm a police officer."

Morse said nothing to that.

"Look," Thursday began. "I'm going to lay it all down for you. My wife needs help. I don't know for how long. It could be two months, it could be a year, I don't know. So I'm going to make you a deal, Morse. Do your duties. And when my wife recovers, I'll set you free."

Morse's eyes went impossibly wide. Only a master had the power to release a slave from servitude. Too many cruel owners tried using such a ploy to keep said slave obedient, making them think they were only a few steps away from freedom.

Thursday meant it. Once Win was well enough, Morse was free to go.

Something in Thursday's voice must've sounded genuine, because Morse nodded and said, "Yes. In exchange for freedom, I will take care of your wife."

 

 

 

 

 

Win was asleep when Thursday brought Morse into the house. Hearing the silence and knowing Win was napping, he placed a finger against his lips. "C'mon," he whispered. "I'll show you where you'll be staying."

He took Morse upstairs to the guest room. When he opened the door, saw the made bed, he cursed.

"What?" Morse asked, staring into the room. "What's wrong?"

"Winny made the bed," Thursday said, scowling. "She knows she's not suppose to be moving."

She not only made the bed, but she cleaned the floors, moved out the boxes, and dusted. "Morse," Thursday said. "Will you go downstairs and familiarize yourself with the kitchen? If you can, make a cup of tea. I need to go talk to my wife."

Morse went away silently, his footsteps barely heard on the floor. Very light stepper, he was. No wonder he ran away so many times, nobody heard him.

Thursday went to the master bedroom, and found Win sleeping quietly on their bed. She looked so peaceful, Thursday didn't want to disturb her. Quietly, Thursday sat down on the bed. The weight change of the mattress was enough to stir Win out of her doze. "Mmmhm... Fred?"

"Hey, Winny," Fred said lovingly, swooping down to gently kiss her on the lips. "How do you feel?"

"Heavy," she said. "Like when I was pregnant with Sam? I remember getting so tired..."

"That's because you were cleaning today. You know you're suppose to stay off your feet."

"Yes, but I couldn't stand the thought of leaving such a dirty guest room. Which, by the way," Win said, pushing herself up. "Did you bring a slave home?"

"Yes. He's downstairs, making tea hopefully."

"Oh, wonderful."

Win has never expressed strong feelings for the rights of slaves. She disliked reading about slave abuse in the papers, but didn't share the same hatred of slavery as Thursday did. At least, nothing else, she would never lay a hand on the boy. Never treat him like he was a lamp, ready to be used then tossed if it became broken. "What's his name?"

"Morse. Endeavour is his first name."

Win snorted. Thursday grinned, the wrinkles around his eyes crinkling. That's why he married her. "Oh my, poor boy."


	2. Chapter 2

Morse was able to find the kettle and a few packets of tea. It took him a little while longer to search for the matches to light the stove. Above him, he heard the muffled voice of his new master through the ceiling, along with a woman's. Morse assumed it was the wife.

The house was nice. Simple. It been a while since Morse worked in a house like this. Most of his owners were ridiculously rich, with more rooms and more slaves than they actually needed. Middle-class folks usually couldn't afford slaves. The ones that have owned slaves often returned them few months later, realizing having another human being in the house was much more expensive than expected. It was more of a sign of social status than anything else.

Though Morse didn't ask for permission, after he set the kettle down to boil, he went to the dinner table in the next room to sit down.

In moments likes these, when Morse had nothing else to do, he often thought about his sister.

For the first few years of their enslavement, Morse had done everything he could to keep in contact with Joyce. He pleaded, he bargained, he begged. A few times he escaped his Master's house just to get a letter into the mailbox. The few times he was caught, he was beaten severely for stealing stamps.

Despite all his attempts, Morse lost her. Last he heard, Joyce was sold to a man somewhere in London.

Morse didn't want to die. Of course he didn't, but he didn't want to die without knowing what happened to Joyce.

There was something about Fred Thursday Morse couldn't put his finger on. Was he telling the truth when he said he would set Morse free?

It wouldn't be the first time a master had promised such things to him. It was a common story shared among slaves, and Morse had heard it many, many times. Masters dangled the promise over a slave's head, only to snatch it away cruelly for small, stupid offenses.

How did it take for a hip to heal? When Morse broke his leg when he was fourteen- he had angered the master's son - it took him two months to heal. Mrs. Thursday was older, though. She had also given birth in the past. Who knew how long it would take for her hip to heal. She could be in pain for the rest of her life.

Morse didn't want to be here for the rest of her life, though.

 

 

 

 

 

Thursday came downstairs when he heard the whistling of the kettle go off. He had to insist for Win to stay in bed while he went to grab the tea. He also wanted to talk to Morse alone, and give him the general rules of the house.

Morse was just pulling the kettle off the hot coil, ceasing the whistling when Thursday walked into the kitchen. Hearing his footsteps, Morse pulled away from the stove and said a respectful, "Sir."

Thursday had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from cursing. This wasn't right. Respect should be earned, not ripped out of you like a cancerous sore. This was going to be tough to get used to. "I'll get the rest of the tea ready," Thursday said. "Go sit down. We have to talk."

It was faster this way. Thursday grabbed Win's favourite mug and a few chocolates for her to nibble on. He also brought with him her pain pills. Seeing them reaffirmed why he was doing this. Why Morse was here in the house.

After he gave Win her tea, and a novel he had purchased on the way home, Thursday took a moment for himself for the following conversation.

"You're a stranger," Thursday said the moment he came into the living room. He internally kicked himself for beginning the conversation like that, but it was already out there. "I can promise you one thing, Morse. No one here will hurt you. I won't allow it. Nor will I allow anyone outside this house harm you. As far as anyone is concerned, you're under my protection."

Morse's eyebrows pushed together, confused of where this conversation was going.

"But you're still a stranger," Thursday continued. "In my house, with my family. If I ever, _ever_ find out you harmed a single hair on their heads, I will not hesitate sending you back. I am a police officer, I would know. Do you understand me?"

Thursday was fully aware if he sent Morse back, it would mean the boy's death. This whole conversation sounded like a threat. But if Thursday had to choose, it would be his family. Every time.

"I understand," Morse said. His voice was strained, perhaps a little scared, if Thursday heard it right.


	3. Chapter 3

Morse cleaned. He cooked, he washed, he took the bins out. He swept, he dusted, he reorganized. He even went down into the basement and cleared out the rats, something of which Thursday hated doing. No matter how many times he tried to keep them out, those damn rodents always found their way inside.

Morse got along with the children, mostly because he stayed out of their way. He wasn't allowed to touch their rooms, but he did help Sam on occasion with his homework.

Thursday added a few new rules for his children to follow too. Though Morse was their slave, they weren't allowed to treat him like one. ("Dad, what _heck_ does that mean?" Joan had said.)

They weren't allowed to overwork him, have him clean up after one of _their_ messes, to purposely make messes for him to clean, to mock him, to have him do chores that were pointless, and lastly, they weren't allowed to 'lend' him out. Already the neighbours were coming over, asking Thursday if they could borrow Morse for a party they were planning.

At first Thursday wanted to tell them where they could stuff it. But when his neighbour added on, "Of course, I'll pay you," Thursday gave it a second thought.

"Morse, the neighbours want you to help them bus their nephew's wedding next week. They'll pay you. Do you want to do it?"

"Yes, sir."

Thursday wondered if Morse misheard him. Morse didn't sound like he was consenting, he sounded like he was confirming an order. Thursday decided to leave it be and watched as Morse disappeared for an evening to help out. When he came back, nearly fourteen hours later, he was practically limping on his sore feet.

"Did they pay you?" Thursday asked.

"Yes."

"Good. How much?"

"A pound."

Thursday thought he heard that wrong. "Wait, how much?"

Morse reached into his pocket and pulled out a single coin. He handed it over to Thursday. Cake frosting had been smeared into the indentations.

That next morning Thursday stomped over to his neighbours' house and raised hell. He came back a half hour later, stuffing a twenty pound note into Morse's hand. "Do what you will of it," he said to the boy.

After that incident, nobody called upon the Thursdays again, not even for tea. Win had complained lightly, saying Thursday had isolated them all, but he couldn't bring himself to care.

 

 

 

 

 

Morse had no idea what to make of Fred Thursday. Morse has had 'nice' masters before. Not all owners wanted to beat or molest their slaves. Many trusted their slaves with their kids, and many children grew up with them, treating them like family rather than property.

But they were still slave owners. They were people who thought owning a human being was a right, and held no qualms about separating parents from their children if they deemed it necessary.

Like Lady Elizabeth, Morse's first master after his parents died. In all, she owned five slaves and treated them all very kindly. She even allowed Morse to visit Joyce during the weekends. Morse had stupidly thought that truly one day she would set him free if he worked hard enough, long enough to gain her favour.

Then Joyce went through puberty. She was no longer a short, scrawny girl. She had blossomed into a young, well-developed woman and on one visit, she expressed concern to Morse that her masters were paying more and more attention to her.

Fearing for her safety, Morse _begged_ Lady Elizabeth to buy Joyce from her masters. Young girls, however, were more expensive than young boys. As Morse tried arguing with her again, Lady Elizabeth simply said,

"This sort of thing happens to all women slaves. Might as well get it over with."

That night, Morse stole silverware from the house and escaped into the night. He got as far as ten blocks before the police nabbed him.

Lady Elizabeth was not happy, and that next day, she sold Morse to another master who lived across the country. Morse never saw Joyce again.

Morse wasn't getting that same feeling with Thursday. Often times when Morse was serving dinner, Thursday would help out, or he would tell Morse to sit down while he served. Sitting there, at the table with the rest of the family while Thursday poured him soup made Morse feel uncomfortable.


	4. Chapter 4

"Ah, thank you, dear," Win said, taking the tea cup from Morse. She took a long, slow sip, savouring the taste. "Mmmm... oh, I really hate being this tired all the time. I do not look forward getting older than this."

She always got tired around twelve in the afternoon. In the morning she did simple chores like hanging the wash out to dry. If she felt up to it, Morse would walk her to the park. If she wanted to go shopping, he made sure she took frequent breaks. In public he never strayed far from her. If the local police saw him walking about without his master, they would assume he ran away.

He had his tags, but he hated wearing those. To him, they were no different than wearing a dog collar.

"Oh, darn it, Fred," Win said suddenly, catching Morse's attention. "He forgot his lunch." She reached over the table and pulled back a paper wrapped sandwich. "Morse, be a dear and run this to him. If he doesn't eat, he gets headaches."

Morse took the sandwich from her, mentally calculating the distance from the house to the station. He's never been there, but he's been arrested enough times to memorize the all the local police areas. It was least a half hour walk to there, half hour back. "I'll be gone for more than an hour. Will you be fine by yourself?"

Win made a face. "I'm not that injured. Don't forget to take your tags."

 

 

 

 

 

It was a very nice walk. A little cold, and though Morse wanted to button his coat, he had to keep his tags in full view.

The twenty pound note was burning a hole in his pocket.

He did not expect Thursday to fight for him over money. He certainly didn't expect for him to stomp over to the neighbours and demanded they pay Morse adequately for his time. Even more, Thursday had _given_ the money _to_ Morse and _not_ kept it for himself.

Never in his life has Morse ever seen a master do that. They always, _always_ took the money or a large percentage of it. And it was never really the slave's right to keep it, but to spend it on gifts for their masters. If they didn't, it would look like they were planning to run.

Twenty pounds. That's enough for a bus ticket and a train ticket. If Morse can find where Joyce is, he could go see her.

_He could find Joyce again._

God, just the thought of it had his heart racing. It took nearly everything he had not to run to the nearest phone to call public relations and see if they had Joyce's file on hand. Even if they didn't, he could find her. Give him time and he would find her.

With those thoughts bouncing around through his head, Morse was surprised when he got to the station. The walk felt much, much shorter than he anticipated. He adjusted his tags so they were in full view, and walked through the front doors.

The setting was a familiar one. There were constant noises of phones ringing, typewriters clacking away, people bustling back and forth. To his side, there were two slaves, a young boy and girl, who were in chains. Runaways, he guessed. He tried not to look at them. It was unlikely they would be recycled, they were too young and healthy for that.

"Excuse me," Morse asked a passing officer in uniform. "Do you know where I can find Inspector Thursday?"

The officer sneered at him.

"I'm his slave," Morse added on, seeing his face. He lifted up the bag with the sandwich inside. "I'm here to deliver his lunch."

That certainly changed the officer's attitude, but not by much. He pointed. "He's over there. Do not interrupt him, he's in the middle of something."

A small crowd had gathered in a space, and Morse stood in the back of it all. He could barely see Thursday from where he stood.

"...she's fifteen. Though the picture doesn't show, she's a red head, well developed for her age. Ask around and see if any of the public remembers seeing her. You're all dismissed."

The small crowd of police officers separated, leaving Morse a clear view of Fred Thursday. "Morse," Thursday said surprised as Morse walked up to him. "What are you doing here?"

Morse held up the sandwich bag.

"I knew I forgot something," Thursday said, taking it from him. "You have my thanks."

Morse nodded and as he turned to leave, Thursday added on, "Did you walk all the way here?"

How else was he suppose to get here? "Yes, sir."

"How long did that take you?"

"About thirty-five minutes."

"Mmm... why don't you sit down and wait a bit. I need to do some inquiries and then I'll drop you off by the house."

He had not said it loudly, but it still caught the ears of several people nearby. Morse could see it from the corners of his eyes how some of them halted for a brief second. A slave, riding in the _Jaguar_? Unthinkable.

Morse had to bite down on his own lip to keep from grinning.


	5. Chapter 5

Thursday was glad Morse brought that sandwich. He didn't know how hungry he was until the brown bag was in hand. Between barking out orders, he snarfed down that sandwich within a few bites. Just in time too, the beginnings of a headache was materializing on the left side of his head. In another ten minutes it would have turned into a full blown, throbbing pain.

Just as he was licking the crumbs off his fingers, one of the other sergeants, Kirk Williams, came up besides him and said, "I'm surprised at you, Fred."

They weren't friends, Thursday and Kirk. They were around the same age but their ideals and interests were too different to form a common bond. Beyond the occasional office drink, they rarely spoke. "About what?"

Kirk nodded his head towards Thursday's office. "You always go on and on about slave rights. You're the loudest voice here about the issue, and yet you have a slave?"

The sandwich Thursday had been enjoying only a second ago turned into a lump of black coal in his stomach. He swallowed. "I needed someone to look after Win while she recovered from her fall."

He tried to say it with conviction. It sounded hollow to him.

"Oh," said Williams. "Guess everyone has a price."

 

 

 

 

 

"What are you _doing_?"

The question came out harsher than Thursday meant to say. He pedaled back, pushing down the self-hate and offended guilt that had built up from earlier and said again, this time in a calmer voice, "What are you doing?"

At his first tone, Morse had jumped away from Thursday's desk and immediately kneeled on the floor in a submissive pose. "I apologize for looking, Master."

Thursday could've punched someone. He had told Morse in the beginning he did not expected to be bowed to. Morse was under no obligation to kneel or avert his eyes when talking to Thursday or to anyone in the house. But in the presence of an angry master, Thursday thought, instinct and years of training took over. "I'm not angry at you, Morse," Thursday sighed. "Get up from the floor, you're going to dirty your knees."

Morse did. His eyes were still averted.

Thursday supposed there was no getting around such a thing. He walked past Morse to get to his chair, pulling out his pipe as he did so. On his desk Thursday had left the papers of the missing girl, Mary Tremlett, out in the open. Morse had been staring at picture of the girl's room. "Did you see anything interesting here?"

When Morse didn't speak, Thursday said, "You're not in trouble. You obviously saw something. Tell me. Might need a fresh perspective."

Morse hesitated. Then in the most respectful tone he could muster he said, "Mary Tremlett. Age fifteen. Said she was going to the cinema with friends. That was a lie. She had no boyfriend, no troubles at home, so it was unlikely she's a runaway."

Thursday hummed. Not bad for a first look. "You were looking rather intently of Mary's room. Why?"

"Well, sir... may I?" He asked, moving towards the photo. He picked it up when Thursday gave him permission. "Look. Here, by her bed? Poetry books."

Thursday shrugged. "So? Young girls like poetry."

"Young girls like Mary Tremlett?"

"Too high brow for a girl whose father works on the GMC assembly line, is that your point?"

"My point _is_ , sir," Morse said, a little irritated. "They're hardbacks. These go beyond the pocket of a school girl, I would think."

The boy blinked, realizing how disrespectful he must've sounded just now. Thursday let it slide. It actually surprised him by how insistent Morse was about it. "Maybe they were a present," Thursday said. "Or a school prize."

Morse considered it, but obviously something was not convincing him.

"Morse, have you ever heard of occam's razor?"

"Occam's razor or _lex parsimoniae,_ is a principle of parsimony, economy, or succinctness used in problem-solving devised by William of Ockham. It states that among competing hypotheses, the one with the fewest assumptions should be selected. Other, more complicated solutions may ultimately prove correct, but—in the absence of certainty—the fewer assumptions that are made, the better."

Thursday nearly choked on his pipe. "Good lord, a simple _yes_ would've been sufficient. My point is, we follow certain inquiries. Poetry books are not one of them. But don't feel too bad. For a rookie, you handled the evidence pretty well. You'd be surprised how many young fools come through those doors, carrying badges but not a lick of sense in between them."

The boy was smart. In such a few sentences, Morse had shown more intelligence and culture than most of the men around here. What the hell was he doing as a common house slave? Surely someone noticed his talents beforehand. "Do you know how to drive?"

Morse nodded.

"Good," Thursday dug his keys out from his pocket and tossed them over the desk for Morse to catch. "I want to enjoy my pipe with free hands. You're driving."


	6. Chapter 6

Morse wouldn't let it go. The thought of those books bothered him, screamed at him, telling him not to ignore it. It sat on his mind so heavily, he could barely appreciate being behind the wheel of the Jaguar.

Well, almost.

He kept running his hands over the cool leather wheel, enjoying how smoothly the car ran on the road. Lady Elizabeth was the one who taught him to drive, though the only time he was allowed to drive was when it was time to buy groceries. Compared to the rust bucket Morse drove, the Jaguar was a whole other experience.

It prompted _want_ inside of Morse. Slaves were not suppose to want, they were suppose to serve and bow and scrape. Even if he did allow himself the indulgence of fantasy, he would only be disappointed when it didn't (would never) come true.

The half hour walk only took five minutes by car to get back to the Thursday house. Morse wished it was longer. "Right, off you go," Thursday said, switching seats. "Tell Win I might be a little late tonight."

"Yes, sir."

Morse watched him go, refusing to leave the sidewalk till the Jaguar turned the street and disappeared from view. He glanced over to the house to see if Win was peering out. When she didn't, Morse's hand slipped into his coat.

And pulled out Thursday's badge he had pick pocketed.

With a shuddering breath, Morse hid his tags inside of his shirt. He inspected the badge, ensuring he took the right one and placed it back inside his coat. Mary Tremlett's house wasn't that far from here.

 

 

 

 

 

Thursday had spanked his kids when they were younger. Not anymore, of course. It wasn't something he enjoyed and the last time he did it was when Sam had set the living room rug on fire when he was fourteen.

It was taking Thursday everything he had not to throttle Morse. The boy kneeled on the ground, head bowed, saying nothing as Thursday paced angrily in front of him. On the table besides him were Mary Tremlett's poetry books.

"You're damn lucky you didn't get caught," Thursday said. He was trying not to sound so angry but _goddamn_ Morse really ticked him off. "Do you know what could've happened if they found out you were a slave? They would've thought you were a runaway and arrested you. And there would be _nothing_ I could do to stop it. You'd be recycled by the end of the day."

Morse's hands curled tightly from where they rested on his thighs. So he did know and understood the consequences.

"Even more, with _my badge_ on hand, they would've thought I gave it to you freely. So not only did you put yourself in danger, you placed my job, my reputation, and my family in danger as well! Speaking of which, how long were you gone?"

"Two hours, sir," Morse said.

"Two hours. With the hour you spent coming to the station, that meant you left _Win_ alone for _three hours._ What did I say, Morse? If you do anything to cause harm to my family, I will not hesitate sending you back! Now give me one damn good reason why I shouldn't!"

"They're first editions."

"What?"

"Mary Tremlett's books," Morse said. Slowly, he lifted his head to face Thursday. "They're first editions... Master."

Thursday ran a hand over his face. Jesus Christ. The boy wasn't playing cop, he was actually investigating a fucking lead. Jesus Christ.

Thursday lifted the cover of one book, reading the copyright date. Morse was right, these were first editions. No way would they ever give these away as a school prize. "What's this?" He said, pulling out a piece of paper from a book. "Crossword puzzles?"

"Mary Tremlett has bookmarked certain pages with the crosswords. She doesn't fill the whole puzzle, only certain parts. All the books have them, all the crosswords done in a specific order. Each question represents a page from one of the books. A word down represents a number, and a word across, a location."

Morse was right. As Thursday brought out the different puzzles, only a specific area has been filled out. "This crossword is last week's. _Eight, Bagley Wood._ "

"I believe the numbers represent a time, and the name represents a location. I think someone was sending Mary Tremlett a secret message of where and when to meet up. Eight o'clock at Bagley Wood."

As fantastical and farfetched it sounded, it made sense. Mary Tremlett's father barely knew the names of the girl's friends, let alone if she had a boyfriend or not. Unless Mary stole these first edition books, someone must've given them to her specifically for these crossword puzzles.

"Morse, get up from the floor."

Morse did. He kept his head down.

"Your punishment," Thursday said. "Is to make dinner for the rest of the week."

"What?" Morse's head snapped up finally to look at him. "But I already do-"

He cut off at the look Thursday gave him. "To add on, _until I say otherwise_ , your primary job is to look after Win. If something comes up, if your theory is proven true... I'll consider letting you on."

Morse's eyes brighten.


	7. Chapter 7

For the next two days, Morse couldn't think of anything else.

He felt like he was in a daze, moving from one thing to another, not really caring, not really focusing. He did his chores, he cooked and watched Win, but his mind was elsewhere.

He has never felt like this before, the need to know so strong it was making him sick. He didn't ask Thursday about the case, but every time his master walked through the front door, Morse was practically dancing on his toes, silently begging for information. "Nothing yet," Thursday would say as he took off his coat and placed away his hat.

Thursday did his best to never bring work home with him, and refused to talk about the case in front of his family. He'd come home, take a hot bath, eat dinner, read the newspaper or a book, then go to bed. He was a simple man of simple tastes.

Then, on the third day, Thursday walked through that front door and said to Morse, "They found her."

Morse nearly dropped the coat and hat given to him. "Where?" He practically demanded. "In Bagley Wood?"

"Yes, like you said."

Morse waited.

Thursday said nothing further.

Why was Thursday being purposefully obtuse? Morse wanted to grab him by the lapels and shake him until the information came pouring out. It was possibly one of the most frustrating things Morse has ever experienced.

His over eagerness spoke volumes through his body language because Thursday said, "You know my rules, Morse. Once my hat is on the rack, work is done for the day."

The hat was still in Morse's hand, waiting to be placed away. Morse looked down, looked back up, and without even thinking, placed the hat back on Thursday's head.

Such a bold move would have earned Morse a whipping with a stick. Perhaps even a day without food. As he pulled his arm away, suddenly realizing his grave mistake, his shoulders instinctively flinched, anticipating the sharp, bloody blows.

Thursday groaned. "You're not going to give this up, are you? Let's go outside. I don't want the kids to hear this."

 

 

 

 

 

"Have you traced down who wrote the crossword puzzle?"

Morse was huddled on himself, cold and shaking, his breaths coming out as white puffs every time he talked. His nose was slowly turning red. He paid no mind.

"According to the editor, most these puzzles are submitted anonymously," Thursday said. He blew into his hands, trying to warm them. "There's no paid stub involved, so we can't trace them that way. Apparently getting a crossword published in the newspaper is considered an _honour_ around these parts."

"Then the person who wrote the puzzle must be an Oxford student or professor."

"What makes you say that?"

"Who else would be that pretentious?"

Thursday considered this. "You could be."

Morse didn't deny it. "You should question the professors at least."

Once again, Thursday was struck by the boy's intelligence. Nobody else would have made such a connection from merely observing a stack of poetry books. Due to confidentiality laws, Thursday was not privy to any of Morse's past masters, though that didn't stop people from selling slaves who were previously owned by celebrities at ridiculously high prices. These laws were put in place when someone bought one of Hitler's old slaves, then tortured them to death.

Most masters only allowed their slaves to learn the basics, enough so they could read a grocery list or count out change. Very rarely did their education ever went beyond that. Many argued it should have never started in the first place.

"Morse, did your masters..."

At the question, Morse blinked up to Thursday, eyes wide, waiting.

"You know what? Never mind. Let's go back inside, I'm freezing."


	8. Chapter 8

Every day Morse found a reason to visit Thursday at the station. Though he wasn't fooling anyone when he said things like, "I brought you an extra pair of clean socks because of the rain," nobody called him out on it. Especially not Win, who helped him by packing him extra sandwiches as an added bonus. Thursday certainly didn't complain when Morse came by with chocolate biscuits in hand.

During those times Thursday would shut the door and the two of them would discuss theories and facts, allowing Morse to look over photos and written statements. It was quite a hilarious thing to watch as Morse often corrected the grammar of many of the officers.

It wasn't quite so funny when Morse corrected Thursday's grammar as well.

It was slow going work, but the boy was making more progress than anybody else in the squadron. Thursday felt so proud of him, he felt the urge to parade him around, showing him off to the morons who thought slaves were nothing more than brainless chattel.

Right now, Morse was holding up Mary Tremlett's green dress, explaining how the young girl wouldn't be able to fit in such a small outfit. That dress had been in evidence for over five days now and only Morse had bothered to look at the size of the dress. Thursday himself felt ashamed for overlooking something so vital.

"That's it," Thursday suddenly said, cutting Morse off in mid-explanation. "I can't stand it anymore. Morse, were you ever a university student?"

It was such a sudden and unexpected question, it took a second for the words to sink in. Morse swallowed. "I... I was."

"I knew it!" Thursday laughed, slapping his knee. "I knew one of your past masters noticed your brain. But that's something I don't understand: educated slaves usually are freed within a few years. Why did you give up that opportunity?"

" _What makes you think I did?"_

Morse had snapped at him, and he immediately pulled back, biting down on his lips to keep himself from speaking out of turn.

Thankfully, Thursday didn't take offense. "I see. Something forced you out?"

Morse nodded.

"May I ask what it was? Who it was?"

"Sir, it doesn't matter, it was years ago-"

"No, it does matter, Morse. It's against the law to force a slave to go against their master's wishes, and if a master wants them to get an education, they have a right to it. Who forced you out?"

"...Everybody."

Morse suddenly rolled up his sleeve, exposing his forearm. He stuck it out for Thursday to see, twisting it so the long, thin scar that reached from elbow to wrist was in plain view. "I got this from a professor after I corrected him in his latin. I didn't even say it out loud, I had written the correction down in my notes. He saw it and took offense."

He shoved down his sleeve, grabbed the side of his shirt and lifted it to show another thin scar across the lower side of Morse's back. "I got this after I refused another student the answers to a test I had taken earlier."

He pushed down his shirt, leaned over and pulled back the edges of his hair. Another scar sat there. "This came from a young woman after I refused to have sex with her in the toilets. Every _day_ I was punished for such offenses."

While it was against the law to force slaves against their master's wishes, it wasn't against the law to _beat them if needed_. As long as they didn't harm the slave to the point of the injury becoming a physical handicap, all was fair game.

Even if Thursday started an inquiry, it was highly unlikely it would lead to arrest, let alone any type of change. Those who beat Morse had the final word and most likely call Morse a liar, defending their scarring of him as justified behaviour modification.

Morse pulled back, closing his eyes. "My master," he began. "Wanted me to have an education to help him with his work. He didn't have children, you see, and he wanted an apprentice, someone who understood and enjoyed what he did to carry on his work. It would have been a simple... _boring_ life, but a good one, and I had full intentions to follow through. Because of the punishments, I was unable to finish my first year there. My master thought I was wasting his time and his money, so he sold me."

The energy seemed to have been sucked out of him. When he finished, he took a step back, his shoulders sagging. "I'm sorry, sir," he said quietly. "I shouldn't have burdened you with that information."

"Don't apologize for that," Thursday said, standing up from his chair. He grasped Morse by the shoulders gently. "You are easily one of the smartest people I have ever met. You're kind, you're passionate, and I am not saying that to make you feel better. Because of you, we're several steps closer to finding out who killed Mary. Nobody else here made that connection, you did. And I..."

He'd meant to use this as a surprise later on. He might as well say it.

"Win is getting better. She moves easier every day. I've already started the paperwork. If everything goes well, you should be free by the end of the month."

Morse made some kind of gasping noise, and he slapped a hand over his mouth to muffle it. He stared at Thursday with wide, wet eyes, almost afraid those words were going were going to be recanted, that all of this was just some cruel, elaborate joke.

"Are you willing to wait three weeks?" Thursday asked, simply to see if Morse lost the ability to speak.

"I've waited my whole for this," Morse croaked. He smiled. "I can wait a little longer."


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I changed the ending to the Mary Tremlett case to the professor instead of the singer. I have no plans to include her and didn't want to go through that whole plot line. Hope ya'll don't mind.

Less than a day later they arrested Professor Norris for the murder of Mary Tremlett. Though Thursday was unable to have Morse's name involved with the investigation, he thanked Morse, then shoved money into his hand, telling him to buy something nice for dinner tonight.

There was a sense of accomplishment deep inside Morse. He was told as a slave, he should feel pride in his work. He should feel accomplished after finishing all his chores, satisfying all his master's needs. That's the whole point of a slave's life after all.

Well, they weren't wrong. Morse did feel a sense of accomplishment after washing forty dishes, or cleaning all the windows, or finally getting that grime out of the bath tub after a week of scrubbing at it. But there was a difference between accomplishment and _pride_.

Morse has never felt pride for finishing all his chores on time. He was happy when he could get time to himself. He was happy when he was able to go to bed early, get a second helping of dinner or enjoy the few personal items he was allowed to keep. Nobody sixty years down the road ever told the tale of scrubbing the black spot out of the toilet to their grandchildren.

Today, he felt pride.

He helped his master catch a murderer. How many slaves could say that? Because of him, he was able to pinpoint certain clues that were otherwise overlooked over by the police. Because of him, he destroyed a small ring of perverts who used their intelligence and influence to take advantage of underaged girls. Because of him, Mary Tremlett's family got a sense of closure.

Morse literally has not felt like this in years. Combined with the fact he was going to be free in just a few weeks, he felt like he was walking on air. He was careful not to let his emotions of the situation overwhelm him- a part of him was still waiting for the other shoe to drop. Everything seemed too good to be true.

Tonight he was going to make the best fucking dinner ever. It wasn't often he was allowed to splurge on food, and the last time he was given money to 'buy something nice for dinner' was for Sam's birthday last month. Sam practically fell in love with the chicken Morse made, followed by the chocolate pudding.

Morse was thinking about buying a roast when a grey car slowly pulled up next to him. He touched his chest to ensure his tags were in full view. He didn't want to be mistaken for a prostitute.

The window rolled down. "You're Morse, aren't you?" Said the driver. "I've seen you at the office."

Morse took a step back away from the curb, frowning lightly. The man's face was familiar, and he struggled to remember the name. Kirk... something. He had a common last name like Smith or Brown. Morse certainly has seen this man walk around the precinct.

"Jump in," Kirk said, motioning with his head. "I'll give you a lift."

"I'm just going to the store," Morse said, gesturing. The store was only a few blocks away, not exactly a physical exertion on his part. "Thank you for the offer."

"Morse, please don't make me pull rank on you. Get in the car."

Slaves were not allowed to refuse orders from police officers. To refuse a police officer demanded a special kind of punishment, usually one of public humiliation. In smaller towns around the country, they're particularly fond of whipping in the town square.

Morse didn't know what this was about. Did Kirk know Morse was helping Thursday with the investigation? Was he going to try to blackmail him or something?

It was not as if Morse had the option to say _no_. Biting his lip, Morse walked to the other side of the car and climbed into the passenger seat.

_You shouldn't have got in. You shouldn't have got in._

Kirk waited patiently as Morse strapped himself in, then started to drive down the street. As he was taught, Morse kept his head down, eyes averted, his mouth shut. He didn't know what to say, if he should say anything at all.

The store was coming into view, prompting Morse to point. "Sir, the store is right there."

Kirk drove past it, not even bothering to slow down. Morse lowered his finger. Dread coiled deep in his belly.

"I'm not going to hurt you, Morse," Kirk said.

Morse could open the door, throw himself out. At this speed, he wasn't sure how badly he would be hurt. "Then what are you doing?"

"I'm really surprised by your master. Inspector Thursday. I thought he would do better by you. Did you know he's a Slave Rights Activist?"

"I..."

No, Morse didn't know. But that didn't make any sense- one of the mantras slave rights activists repeated often were _you don't own slaves_. Not under any circumstance, not for any reason.

Morse felt sick. "I... I don't believe you."

Kirk kept driving, past the town's borders, onto the roads leading out of Oxford. "It doesn't matter if you believe me. It's the truth."

"Where are you taking me?"

"Out of here," Kirk said with a wicked grin. "I'm setting you free."

Morse's mouth dropped. "What?"

"Unlike your _master_ , I'm a real activist. I've got friends waiting for us on Bilingly's road. They have transportation, food, water, and everything you need to escape the country. By this time tomorrow, you'll be a free man in France."

"No! You can't!"

"Morse?"

Morse was going to be set free in less than than a few weeks. If he was found, if they were caught, he would be recycled, regardless if he was kidnapped or not. "Inspector Thursday has already promised me freedom!" He pleaded to Kirk. "Please, take me back, if they find me-"

"He promised you freedom? And here I thought you were a smart guy. You actually believed his lies? Morse, you're not the first slave I've set free. Do you know how many of them said their masters promised them freedom, only to take it away at the last second for some godawful reason? It's a _ruse_ to keep a slave compliant, thinking if they're _good enough_ , long enough, they'll be set free."

Morse bit down on his tongue. Memories of his past masters came back, reminding him of their lies and broken promises. Many of them did promise freedom. Many of them promised and then took it away without a second thought. Like Vince, who kept pushing back the day for ridiculous reasons. _"Oh, Endeavour, you broke that dish! I'm sorry, but now I can't set you free until you pay that dish off. It'll take... oh, another three weeks of servitude. Don't worry, that will fly by in no time!"_

Less than a year later, Vince sold him. _"Sorry, you just got too expensive for me to keep. You were so close to freedom, too! Shame."_

No, Inspector Thursday was not like that. He was kind, and though a bit rough around the edges, he was trustworthy. He wasn't lying.

"Pull over and let me out," Morse demanded. "I'll be recycled if I am found, let me go!"

Kirk, amazingly, slowed down. Morse turned his attention the car door, to open it and get the hell out of here. If someone found him and asked him what he was doing, he could claim he took the wrong bus home. He was close enough to Oxford to say that. He'll keep his tags out, state very loudly who his master was and-

He gave a short squeal when a rag was suddenly slapped over his mouth and nose. Morse struggled, trying to rip it off. A dull, sweet scent filled his mind, whiting out his eyesight.

"You're not the first brainwashed slave I've dealt with either," Kirk grunted, holding on tight as Morse fought against his grip. Slowly, Morse went lax in his arms. "Shhh... just let it happen. When you wake up, you'll be free. I promise."


	10. Chapter 10

"Why don't you get the word out?"

Thursday wanted to. Sometimes slaves got lost, others were stuck in traffic, some accidentally fell asleep at the bus stop, missed their ride and had to wait another two hours for the next one. Any of that could've happened to Morse.

Except it was only a twenty minute walk to the nearest store, then another twenty-five minute walk to the house. Add in the estimated time to shop for food, Morse should've only been out for at most, two hours. Less than that.

It has now been six hours he's been gone. Thursday already drove past all the places Morse could've possibly gone to and nothing.

Morse may have been kidnapped. But why? As far as Thursday knew, Morse kept his head down, his nose clean. He shouldn't have any enemies.

Or... or Morse ran for it. Maybe he thought Thursday was lying about setting him free and took the little money he earned and ran away. He was probably on a bus somewhere, heading to the other side of the country, laughing his head off. If Thursday reported Morse missing, and he was found escaping, Morse would be killed. No trial, no hesitation, he'll be taken out to the side of the road, away from prying eyes, and shot like a dog.

Somehow Thursday didn't think Morse ran away.

His freedom was only a few weeks away, why risk that? Was it something Thursday said? Was it something he did unintentionally?

Win was still waiting for an answer. Wetting his lips, Thursday said slowly, "Morse has too many strikes against him. If he is found escaping, he'll be recycled."

"What if he's been kidnapped?"

"He'll still be recycled," Thursday said.

"What if he's hurt? What if..."

Morse was damned either way. If he's run- and God, Thursday hoped he ran - the best thing Thursday could do was give him time to get away. The boy was young, strong, he was capable. He could get away, find someplace where nobody knew he was a slave, a place where he could be free.

 

 

 

 

 

Morse woke slowly. He was conscious just enough to remember what happened, to know what was happening, but he kept being pulled under, his head too heavy to fight against it. He felt hot, sweaty. He was vaguely aware a giant blanket was over him, and he struggled to kick it away. He was getting smothered.

There were voices, too muted to be heard. Was something wrong with his ears? Had he gone deaf?

His body begged him to let go, to go back to sleep, and he fought against it. Get up. Get up. Get up, get up, get up, get up-

His eyes flew open. With a groan he pushed back the blanket. The air was just as thick as being under the blanket and it didn't ease any of his discomfort. His sweat-soaked shirt stuck to his back. He wished for water.

He saw he was lying in the backseat of a car. Kirk's car, that he remembered. It was dark outside, pitch black almost. Good god, how long has he been unconscious?

Carefully he pushed himself up, peeling himself off the seat. It was so hot, god, why did Kirk put this stupid blanket on him?

For a second, he fell back and fainted from the heat.

He gained conscious again quickly, desperate now to escape the suffocating air around him. He pulled himself up again, reached out, opened the door and threw himself out.

He fell face first into mud. Cool mud, so he didn't mind too much. It helped him push away the fog from his mind.

He managed to haul himself up and lean against the car, gasping for air. Where was he? Did Kirk managed to take him all the way to Paris?

_Fuck_ , it was freezing. Now that the first initial shock wore off, the cold air outside was too much. The mud on his face was bitter and thick, and he wiped it away with a trembling hand. A part of him wanted to crawl back into the sweltering car.

From not too far away he heard voices talking. About him.

Morse recognized Kirk's voice immediately. "How long will it take for you to get him to the harbour?"

"Another hour," said a different voice. This man had a French accent. "He needs to be awake though, pretend to be a passenger."

"No can do, he's been brainwashed by his master into staying. Is there another way to smuggle him?"

"We can try. I don't like binding slaves, they tend to hurt themselves. Do you still have more of that... stuff you brought?"

"You mean the chloroform?"

"Yeah. Maybe if we can... keep him lightly drugged. Pretend he's drunk, then we can pass him by as another passenger."

"Not sure if it can work that way. Let me go to the car, see if I have anything..."

Morse heard heavy steps, shoes upon dry leaves and gravel coming towards him. Get away, he thought, pushing himself forward as he crawled on all fours, away from the car. Get away, _get away._

"Morse?" He heard Kirk getting closer.

Morse surged to his feet. Not bothering to even look back, he took off in a full sprint.

"Morse!"

He stumbled, his legs cramping from the sudden movement. He pushed through the pain, gritting his teeth, ignoring the cries behind him.

"Morse, come back! I am trying to help you! Please!"

Morse didn't know where he was, where he was going. He didn't have a torch on him. The moon was out but so were the clouds, giving him minimal light. He kept running, only praying he wouldn't run himself off a cliff.

Kirk's voice was getting smaller and smaller behind him. Kirk was only a few years older than Morse. For a police officer, he had no stamina, no strength. Morse kept running, ignoring everything behind him. He didn't stop.


	11. Chapter 11

He didn't know where he was.

Morse passed a few street signs but none of them were recognizable to him. Every time there was a noise behind him- the snap of a twig, the hooting of an owl- Morse would flinch, thinking Kirk had come to grab him again.

It was fucking freezing. However he managed to convince himself it wasn't as bad as he thought. He wasn't going to die from this, that it was merely discomfort and the worse thing that'll happen to him would be a head cold. Except every time the wind blew, it felt like he was being struck across the body with ice cubes. He'd cry out, his body shivering uncontrollably.

It wasn't _this_ cold this afternoon.

Morse carried on, ignoring his chattering teeth, determined to get back to Master Thursday.

Judging from where the moon sat, it was only eleven at night. He'd been missing for over six hours now.

Morse slowed in his tracks, then stopped, gasping for air. Sweat ran freely down his cheeks. He could _smell_ himself. He could smell the mud on his skin, but now the sweat added on an extra underlying stench that made him grimace. He doubled over, his breaths coming out in white puffs.

What really mattered if Thursday believed him or not.

A fellow police officer was a Slave Right's Activist. Kirk did more than preach of slave rights, he actively snatched them away and set them free. To accuse someone of stealing slaves was a great offense. To prove it true could result in Kirk finding himself in forced servitude for the rest of his life. If he had a wife (Morse didn't know if he did) if he had kids, they too could find themselves suddenly stripped of their freedom.

The whole precinct could find themselves under severe investigation. The press would eat them alive, Thursday could very well lose his job, and in the end, Morse would still be recycled.

To top it all off, was Kirk really somebody Morse wanted to expose?

The man freed slaves. Morse was damn lucky he got Fred Thursday as a master. Too many times Morse walked down the street and passed a slave who was missing their fingers, their tongue, or were sporting fresh, bleeding wounds. Those poor fellows were not as fortunate and some were nowhere near to becoming free.

When Morse came to visit the precinct, he sometimes overheard chatter about slaves disappearing into the night. "I'm not surprise," one officer said a few months back. "Everyone knows Sheppard likes to beat his slaves. It was just a wonder it took this long for the bugger to up and run."

Maybe Kirk helped that poor bugger, maybe he didn't. Either way, was that something Morse wanted to stop? To destroy Oxford's only real freedom fighter?

But if he didn't tell Thursday the truth, if other people knew Morse was missing, what other choice did Morse have? To lie meant his own death. To tell the truth meant the death of other slaves. Did he value his life above all others- was this something worth dying for?

Morse stood up straight, the stitch in his side burning lightly. Without coming to a decision, he started jogging again. Not even as he passed a road sign pointing the way back to Oxford, his mind was a blank.

 

 

 

 

 

It was at six in the morning when Thursday heard the front doorbell ring.

As a police officer, Thursday had long given up his ability to sleep through anything. He always kept an ear out for the phone or the front door. When he heard the the bell echo through the house, he was immediately awake, blinking furiously to keep himself that way.

Win often tried to be the same and began to rouse from her sleep. Thursday gently hushed her, told her to go back to sleep, and pulled the blankets more around her to help. Within a second she snoring away, snuggling under the warmth.

The sun was barely rising at this point, but Thursday could tell it was going to be a beautiful day. With a yawn he grabbed a robe that was draped over a chair and shrugged it on. By the time he realized he forgot his slippers, was already down the stairs. Grimacing about his cold feet, he reached out and opened the front door.

"Morse...?"

Thursday had to shake his head to ensure what he was seeing wasn't a dream. The boy was hunched in on himself, his arms wrapped around his torso, shivering like mad. His face was dirty and greasy, his hair unkempt and splattered with mud. His clothes were ripped. Bits of leaves, twigs and pollen stuck to them. It looked like he was rolling in the woods.

"Jesus Christ, lad!" Thursday cried out, grabbing Morse by the shoulder and tugging him inside. "Get in here!"

Before he closed the door he took a quick glance around to ensure none of the neighbours were watching him. The only person he saw was the milkman who was just coming onto their street. He closed the door.

His raised voice must have caught Win's attention because she came down the stairs in a huff, hastily putting on her own robe. She saw Morse and gasped.

'Run a bath,' Thursday mouthed to her. She nodded and ran back up the stairs.

Thursday steered Morse to the living room and made him sit down. He grabbed a small, knitted blanket Joan made two Christmases ago and draped it over Morse's shoulders. "What happened to you?" He demanded.

"Kidnapped," Morse said. His teeth were chattering. "I was... grabbed on the way... home."

Thursday reared back. Oh god, he was wrong. What did those bastards do to him? "Tell me who they were. I promise you I won't include your name."

Morse shook his head. "I can't."

"You can. You're safe here, I-"

"He is a Slave Right's Activist. I can't... master."

He said 'master' quietly, almost begging. The boy was tensing up, as if expecting blows to rain down upon him.

In his entire life, Thursday saved only fourteen slaves. Two in his teenage years when he helped a pair of siblings escape upon a truck. Four in his twenties when he forged papers for an entire family to leave the country. The rest were during the war. When he found scattered, lost slaves; instead of turning them in (like he was suppose to), he guided them to safe zones.

Once he was back home, once he learnt Win was pregnant, Thursday's priorities changed. Though he still tried to help scattered slaves, no longer was he active in trying to free them.

Morse didn't have to give a reason why he refused to name the Activist, Thursday already knew. The Activist was probably helping others as they speak. Maybe those recently disappeared slave owned by Rachel Newman (who had the nasty habit of breaking fingers for petty offenses) was freed by that particular person.

However, that didn't mean Thursday should let this slide.

Looking at the state of Morse, exactly what kind of Activist was this person? Too many Thursday came across slaves shoved into small boxes to export them as mail, only for the poor bastards to die from heat exhaustion or suffocation. Sometimes they were transported through unsafe environments, and many ended up dying from stepping on a rusty nail or gangrene.

Most of the time when these slaves died, these Activists don't bother to give them a proper funeral. As soon as they realize the slave had died, they abandon their mission, and leave the corpse to be found elsewhere.

"Morse, don't protect this person," Thursday urged. "They may have good intentions, but you know where that road leads to. Who knows how much blood is on their hands trying to transport slaves. Give me a name."

The boy was not going to budge. He would rather get a beating than release a name.

Seeing this, Thursday sighed, the fight draining out of him. "Then, for god's sakes, Morse... why didn't you go with them?"

"I can't..." Morse said, still shivering. "Not yet."

Upstairs, Thursday heard the water cease. Win must be finished with filling the tub. "Come on, then," Thursday urged, prompting Morse to get up. "Let's get you clean."

They were barely half-way up the stairs when there was a sudden knocking at the front door. Now who the fuck would that be? Thursday considered not answering it, he had other priorities at the moment, but it could be someone from the precinct. With one hand, he shooed Morse to continue without him.

Grumbling, Thursday pulled his robe closer around him and trudged back down. He opened the door.

"Kirk! What are you doing here?"

There was a cry above him. Thursday turned around to see Morse awkwardly run down the stairs yelling out, "Sir, get away from the door-!"

Thursday turned back. He found himself staring down the barrel of a gun.

Kirk cocked back the hammer.


	12. Chapter 12

Kirk motioned with the gun to step back. Thursday complied, holding up his hand behind him to Morse, silently telling him to keep his distance. Nobody was speaking, and Thursday could only hope Win or the kids wouldn't come downstairs. He didn't know what would happen if they did.

Once inside, Kirk quietly closed the door behind him. He then motioned again with the gun to go into the sitting room.

"Morse," Kirk whispered. "Go upstairs. Pretend you didn't see this."

Morse stood his ground. "No, I am not going anywhere."

"I know you're scared, I know this _man_ -" he rattled the gun at Thursday. "-brainwashed you, but you don't need to be afraid anymore."

"I am not brainwashed-"

"Morse," Thursday said, cutting him off. "Go upstairs."

Kirk suddenly raised his arm, and brought the gun down across Thursday's jaw. There was an audible _crack_ , sending Thursday to his knees. He raised a hand to cup his mouth, feeling his hot blood spilling across his palm. His whole mouth was in horrible pain, and he prayed the blow didn't loosen any of his teeth.

"Don't you order him!" Kirk hissed. "You will never order anyone ever again!"

He said it loud enough to be heard by the rest of the house. From upstairs, one of the kids stirred, their feet padding across their room. Judging from where the noise was coming from, it was Sam. Oh god no.

The way Morse's gaze drew upwards for a split second, Thursday knew he heard the footsteps too. This was going to turn into a bloodbath. The room for negotiation went out the window the moment Kirk raised his arm.

In that single moment of time, both Thursday and Morse locked eyes, and came to a silent agreement.

Kirk, with his attention still on Thursday, Morse rushed forward from the stairs, raised his hands together in a fist, and brought it down upon Kirk's back.

At the same time, Thursday surged up, grabbed the end of the gun, pointing it away from him. The resulting actions caused Kirk to pull the trigger.

It felt like a grenade went off in Thursday's hand.

His vision went white with pain.

The whole world around him drowned out, his heartbeat pounding fiercely in his ear. He was briefly aware he was falling back, his body collapsing to the floor, but beyond that there was nothing. He didn't know how long he was gone, how long it took him to come back. As his vision cleared and his thoughts came back to him, he found himself being cradled by Win.

Kirk was on the ground, both Morse and Sam on top, holding him down. Morse was sporting a small cut across his forehead, and a trickle of blood dribbled down over his eyebrow. Sam was gritting his teeth, his arms shaking from effort. He was the one most visibly shaken.

From the hallway, Thursday could hear Joan calling for the police. Of everyone in the family, it should be Joan who should go into the army. She had nerves of steel; she would be great in emergency situations.

Thursday didn't want to see if his fingers had been blown off. (Like Adam Stricks, who stared at his mutilated hand for ten long seconds, screaming his head off, only to be silenced when a bullet entered his left lung-)

He pushed poor Adam from his mind, and with a grunt, lifted his arm up.

All his fingers were still present, thank god. But his hand, the back of it and his palm, was severely burned. Second degree, if he had to guess.

"I was trying to free you!" Kirk wheezed from the floor. The combined weight of Morse and Sam made it hard for him to speak. "You would have been free! Don't do this, Morse! Don't..."

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

His hand will heal, but the burn was going to leave a permanent, thick scar.

It wasn't the first major scar on Thursday's body. He had a long, white scar across his torso from a knife wound, and several others dotting his chest and arms from shrapnel. As long as he didn't lose movement or ability in his hand, he considered that a victory.

The pistol whipping had bruised him across the jaw, his teeth cutting into his cheek. No loose teeth. Also a victory.

When the police came, Thursday ordered Morse to go upstairs and to stay there. When Morse looked like he was going to protest- "I'm the reason he came!"- Thursday had hissed at him, "If you tell the police you were with Kirk, they will recycle you. Go upstairs and stay there. I'll handle this."

He feared Kirk might say something. But as the handcuffs were placed on him, he said nothing. He kept his mouth shut, his head down, refusing to meet anyone's eye. If this was to protect himself or to protect Morse, Thursday didn't know.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Over the course of the week they raided Kirk's house. Down in his basement there were names of the slaves he had liberated from their homes, all around the country. Thursday had thought Kirk simply took the slaves under the guise of night. Upon further investigation, it was found Kirk and his coconspirators had also been responsible for dozens of homicides.

He didn't just take the slaves, he also murdered their masters.

Kirk had not come back to free Morse, he came to murder Thursday. Possibly his whole family as well.

There were so many names involved with Kirk, it was going take months to get through it all. They didn't need his confession, they didn't need his help in any shape or form. He had damned himself and his entire organization.

So why did this feel like a hollow victory?

In the end there was no telling how many slaves Kirk had liberated. And yes, Thursday was choosing to say liberated instead of _stole_. Many of these slaves had been abused, starved, raped, humiliated beyond belief, and regardless how Thursday felt towards Kirk, it didn't change the fact Kirk had taken these individuals from these poisonous places and relocated them someplace where they could safe and free.

It was certainly a lot more than what Thursday had been doing.

_I guess everyone has a price._

As much as Thursday spoke out against slavery, it still didn't change the fact he currently owned a human being. One day he was going to face God and explain to Him why he thought that was acceptable behaviour.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Due to having to trek across the country side with a thin jacket in the freezing cold, Morse caught the flu. He spent the next two weeks bed ridden, being doted on by Win. "I honestly don't mind," she cooed when Morse tried to apologize for the inconvenience. "You waited on me, so it's only proper I wait on you. Besides, it feels good to be mobile again."

She wiggled her hips, making the boy blush.

Win loved being able to move again without the assistance of another person. But she was overplaying that happiness to cover up the shock she was still feeling from having her home invaded. Everyone had their own way of coping. Win took up dancing, and Sam bowled.

Win gathered her things from Morse's bedside, and as she passed Thursday on her way out of the room, she reached out and pinched him on the bum.

She was _definitely_ overplaying it. She would have never done that in front of another person.

Morse was politely looking the other way, pretending he didn't see.

Thursday quietly closed the door. He came to the bed, nudged over Morse's feet to make room, and sat down. "How do you feel, Morse?"

"Better, sir. How's your burn?"

Thursday held up his hand. The skin was a leathery, ugly thing. It restricted his movement, and he couldn't close a fist all the way without risking tearing. It was going to take _months_ to heal fully. At least at this point, it wasn't hurting him too much. "Better. Morse... while you were sick, obviously there's been ...developments."

"Sir?"

"Because of the ongoing investigation with Kirk, I will have to push back your release of servitude about three months."

"Let me explain," Thursday said quickly, seeing the sudden pained look in Morse's eyes. "As of right now, my superiors are privately investigating everyone at the precinct. Kirk was a policeman, and yet he was running an unknown underground freedom fight. At this point, Kirk has been linked to at least fifteen murders, four of which were children under the age of fifteen. I have not been quiet about my views on slavery, Morse. Though I was the one attacked, I am still a suspect under their eyes. And if I let you go-"

"They might see you as a freedom fighter as well," Morse said quietly, drawing up his legs to his chest. "Just in a different form. I understand."

"I'm sorry."

A small tear leaked out of Morse's eye, which he quickly wiped away. "You know, he said this will happen."

"What?"

"Kirk," Morse said flatly. "He said you'll always find an excuse to keep me on, dangling freedom in front to keep me placid."

Thursday sucked in a harsh breath. "I-"

"I believe you sir," Morse said, looking up at him. "When you said you'll give me my freedom. I don't doubt that. It's just... been a rather emotional ride. First you offer me freedom, then Kirk offered- well, he _forced_ freedom on me..."

 _I guess everyone has a price_. Those words were going to haunt Thursday for the rest of his life.

"That's something I don't understand," Thursday said. "You had a chance to leave. Why didn't you take it?"

"Because," said Morse. "I have a sister."

"I didn't know you had a sister."

"I haven't seen her in nearly ten years. I don't even know if she's alive or... We were separated when we were kids. If I had gone with Kirk, I would never be allowed back. I would be killed as soon as I dared cross that border. I am _not leaving_ until I find her again."

"Is... is that why you ran away so many times? To look for her?"

"Yes."

And to think I gave up on you so easily.

"Alright then," Thursday said, patting Morse's knee and standing up. "I guess that's what we have to do."

"Sir...?"

"Well, if I can't give you your freedom, the least I could do is help you look for your sister."

He held up his scared hand. "You did save my life."

 

 

 

 

 

 

It took nearly two months of investigation to find Joyce. To Morse's great relief, he found she was eventually sold to a rather wealthy family an hour outside of Oxford as a personal maid.

In Morse's hand he held a small bouquet of flowers. He trembled with anticipation. "Do you think she'll recognize me?"

"That's a silly question," Thursday said as they walked up to the front door. He reached out and rung the doorbell. "Of course she will. Don't think she wasn't looking for you too."

The front door opened.

A small smile lit up on Morse's face. "Joyc-ie?"

 

_When the broken hearted people_   
_Living in the world agree  
There will be an answer, let it be_

_For though they may be parted_   
_There is still a chance that they will see  
There will be an answer, let it be_


End file.
